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Einband grossA Devon Midwinter Murder
ISBN/GTIN

A Devon Midwinter Murder

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
352 Seiten
Englisch
Allison & Busbyerschienen am23.11.2023
Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year ... for murder As amateur sleuth Juno Browne's Sunday gets to a chilly start in the delightful Devon town of Ashburton, a murder is brewing. As always seems to happen, Juno is in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she discovers the body of Bob the Blacksmith, his dead hands entwined with a sprig of elder. Juno begins to see links with previous 'accidental' deaths, although her way through the cloud of suspicion is further obscured by those who insist on links to ancient folklore. Determined to take the evidence with a generous pinch of salt, Juno navigates pagan ceremonies and astrological connections that turn up yet more bodies on a deadly path to the truth.

Stephanie Austin has enjoyed a varied career, working as an artist and an antiques trader, but also for the Devon Schools Library Service. When not writing she is actively involved in amateur theatre as a director and actor, and attempts to be a competent gardener and cook. She lives in Devon.mehr
Verfügbare Formate
BuchGebunden
EUR25,50
TaschenbuchKartoniert, Paperback
EUR14,50
E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
EUR5,99

Produkt

KlappentextChristmas is the most wonderful time of the year ... for murder As amateur sleuth Juno Browne's Sunday gets to a chilly start in the delightful Devon town of Ashburton, a murder is brewing. As always seems to happen, Juno is in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she discovers the body of Bob the Blacksmith, his dead hands entwined with a sprig of elder. Juno begins to see links with previous 'accidental' deaths, although her way through the cloud of suspicion is further obscured by those who insist on links to ancient folklore. Determined to take the evidence with a generous pinch of salt, Juno navigates pagan ceremonies and astrological connections that turn up yet more bodies on a deadly path to the truth.

Stephanie Austin has enjoyed a varied career, working as an artist and an antiques trader, but also for the Devon Schools Library Service. When not writing she is actively involved in amateur theatre as a director and actor, and attempts to be a competent gardener and cook. She lives in Devon.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9780749030360
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2023
Erscheinungsdatum23.11.2023
ReiheDevon Mysteries
Reihen-Nr.7
Seiten352 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse1052 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.13085697
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe



CHAPTER ONE


It was a lovely day for a murder, bright blue and sharp cold, the sort of December day I thought I´d never see again. Devon winters have been so mild and soft over the last few years. I suspected nothing. When I awoke, I had no sense of foreknowledge, no ominous fluttering of foreboding. Despite my recent experiences of discovering dead bodies, I have not yet developed an early warning system. Instead, I was excited, looking forward to the day.

It was Sunday so I had no dogs to walk, but I got up early and dressed in the dark, pulling on a thick jumper in readiness for the cold outside. Bill, curled up warm in a furry circle on my bed, didn´t even stir. I closed the door of the flat softly and tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the treads that creaked. I didn´t want to disturb Adam and Kate on the ground floor, although their Sunday morning lie-ins are a thing of the past since baby Noah arrived.

I opened the front door and the cold snatched my breath. It was quiet, the little town of Ashburton still snug in its Sunday sleep, enfolded by the hills that rise up towards Dartmoor, undisturbed by the icy waters of the stream that burbles softly through its heart. The houses were in darkness, no lights showed; above their rooftops one laggard star remained that should have been in bed long ago. Not even the rooks roosting in the church tower had stirred their feathers yet. I rammed my woolly hat down over my hair and pulled on my gloves. The grass was crisp and crunched beneath my boots, ivy leaves sketched with chalk lines of frost. I love winter. Perhaps this Christmas, there would be snow, real snow.

I scraped a sparkling crust of ice from the windscreen of Van Blanc and headed for Old Nick´s. There was no one about in town. I passed the Victoria Inn, the stream sneaking behind an old weavers´ cottage, and drove through streets empty save for a solitary driver delivering Sunday papers to the co-op, stacking them in piles on the pavement by the door. I negotiated the cobbled ginnel of Shadow Lane, where my shop stands in splendid isolation - Old Nick´s: antiques, crafts, paintings and second-hand books - source of constant angst and not much income. Not so much cash flow as cash drip.

I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and for a moment stood in the dark and listened. Sometimes, when I go into the shop first thing, I get a sense of Old Nick still being around.

I don´t mean he´s a ghost. I don´t snatch glimpses of him from the corner of my eye, or hear the shuffle of his slippers on the stairs. He´s not a presence exactly. But as I walk in the door, I get a feeling as if I´ve come in on the end of his laughter, just missed it. And the joke is always on me. I had a perfectly viable business as a Domestic Goddess, cleaning, gardening and walking dogs, before Nick left me the antique shop in his will. Now I have to juggle two businesses just to make enough to keep this one running. But I remember his chuckle and his wicked blue eyes and realise that I miss him. Poor murdered Nick. I haven´t asked Sophie and Pat, who spend more time in the shop than I do, if they´ve experienced anything similar. Their imaginations are overactive as it is.

Boxes were packed and waiting inside, and I loaded them into my van, my breath puffing little clouds in the cold air at each trip; small antiques and collectibles for me, handicrafts and jewellery for Pat, paintings and display stands for Sophie. I locked them all in the back then headed up the hill towards Druid Lodge.

On the way I passed a number of posters tied to trees and telegraph poles, white rectangles in the thinning gloom, advertising today´s event and pointing the way. I didn´t need to read them because I´d helped to write them. Victorian Christmas Fair in aid of Honeysuckle Farm Animal Sanctuary, they announced proudly, Fun for all the Family.

That´s what today was about. Pat, who sells her handiwork in my shop, runs Honeysuckle Farm, a sanctuary for abandoned animals and injured wildlife, along with her sister and brother-in-law. It costs them a fortune to run and they are always desperately short of funds. Today´s event was about raising them some money, all profits going to support the animals.

I drove in through the gates of Druid Lodge and up the winding drive. As the house came into view, I could see there were lights on downstairs, so someone in that grand Georgian pile was up and about. Ricky and Morris are like vampires, they almost never sleep.

On the lawn stood two large marquees, ghostly white in the dimness, empty and waiting, like the animal pens in front of them, for their occupants to arrive. I´d parked Van Blanc and was still crunching my way across the gravel towards the house when the front door was flung open, revealing Ricky, tall and elegant in a silk dressing gown, one hand thrust into his pocket. The breakfast shift´s arrived,´ he announced to no one in particular. Hello, Princess! Watch these flagstones by the porch here, they might be a bit slippy. Bleedin´ hell, it´s cold!´

Well, get inside, then.´ I tugged the sleeve of his dressing gown as I entered the hall. You´ll freeze in this thin thing.´

Noel Coward wore this, I´ll have you know,´ he sniffed as he shut out the cold behind me.

Onstage, maybe.´ I stamped my boots on the doormat and pulled off my gloves and hat. I bet even Noel Coward had a fleecy one in real life.´

He cackled with laughter. As to that, I couldn´t say. Come on in. Maurice is getting busy with a fry-up.´

I stuck my head into the kitchen. Morris threw me a glance, his bald head shining, his gold specs sliding down his nose as he jiggled sizzling pans on the Aga. Hello, Juno love.´

The fair was not due to start for hours. I´d arrived in time for breakfast because, despite weeks of preparation, there were last-minute things to sort out. On our way through the hall, we passed rails hanging with Victorian clothes. Ricky and Morris have run a hire company for years, renting out costumes to theatrical groups, and their stock takes up most of the house. They´re always busy during the panto season, but a low demand for A Christmas Carol this year meant the Victorian department had enough left to provide costumes for today´s stallholders and volunteers. Ricky held up a full-skirted dress in a startling blue and green tartan. We thought this would do for you.´

I gaped at it in horror. You want me to spend all day in a crinoline?´

Now we agreed, Juno,´ Morris reminded me, calling from the kitchen, all volunteers would wear Victorian costume.´

Can´t I get away with a mob cap and a shawl?´

Ricky raised an eyebrow. Who do you think you are, some old washerwoman?´

Oh, do try it on, Juno,´ Morris pleaded, coming to the kitchen door and wiping his hands on his apron, it will look gorgeous with your red hair.´

I´ll try it after breakfast,´ I said, praying it wouldn´t fit. But of course it would fit. Ricky and Morris know what´ll fit me, just by looking.

As I sat at the table, Ricky slipped his first fag of the day between his lips.

Not till after breakfast.´ Morris brandished a fish slice in his direction. You promised.´

Oh, all right, Maurice.´ He sighed and put the cigarette away. Tea or coffee?´ he asked me sulkily.

Coffee, thanks.´ I dragged my list of what we had left to do out from my shoulder bag and flattened it out on the table so we could study it over breakfast. It contained the names of all the traders and volunteers, stewards and raffle-ticket sellers. It may be the nerd in me, but I do love a list. I´d also sketched out a plan of the layout of pitches for people who would be setting up their own stalls outside in the grounds. Santa´s Grotto would be in the little wooded area next to the lake. The lights were already strung up in the trees, a job that had taken three days. Now they were just waiting to be switched on.

Have we got much left to do, Juno?´ Morris asked anxiously, as he placed a loaded breakfast plate in front of me. I crunched into a triangle of hot buttered toast. We´ve got to put up those parking signs out in next door´s field,´ I muttered. Ricky rose to his feet as the doorbell rang. Then let´s hope that´s another volunteer.´

It was two, as it happened. Olly charged into the kitchen, looking taller than when I´d seen him three days ago. But adolescent boys are like that, they grow in sudden spurts. He was taking off a cycling helmet, his little face pinched with cold, the tip of his nose and his sticky-out ears glowing scarlet. Hello, Juno!´ he grinned.

You´re bright and early.´

Chris called for me at home and we rode up on our bikes,´ he answered, his eyes alight with excitement. It was great, but it wasn´t half cold. I wish I had an e-bike like Chris.´...

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